


what i've tasted of desire

by anirondack



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Character Study, Dom Katsuki Yuuri, Gentle Dom Katsuki Yuuri, Light Masochism, M/M, Mild Painplay, Prosaic As All Fuck, Scratching, Sub Victor Nikiforov, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-14 21:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10544562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anirondack/pseuds/anirondack
Summary: Victor is ice, and Yuuri Katsuki is fire.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hey kids! this isn't part of the 10 kinks challenge, which is updated on saturdays - i just felt like writing some stuff tonight and i think there were some requests for temperature play anyway. wrote this for [sizequeenvictor](http://sizequeenvictor.tumblr.com) on tumblr just because.
> 
> might add a second chapter to this, we'll see.

Victor is cold.

Victor has been cold for twenty-eight years. He’s had numb fingers and runny noses and rosy, tingling cheeks and melting ice crystals in the divots of scrapes when he fell. He’s pressed his fingertips and his forehead and his cheeks and his lips to the ice and thought about them freezing there and laughed when he got up and they didn’t.

_Drip._

Victor is freezing, naked and flayed without a stitch of clothing to hide him. He’s carved himself open so many times and let the Saint Petersburg chill rush in, dumping snow on his organs. He is four, building a snowman. He is eight, having a snowball fight with his father. He is fifteen, sitting on a snowdrift waiting for a bus. He is twenty-three, scraping ice off the windshield of his car. He is twenty-seven, covering up all the cherry blossoms.

_Drip._

Victor has had a chill in his bones since he was born, four snowy days off from the longest night of the year. He was born in ice, onto the ice, and never warmed back up. His mother bundled him in three jackets and he coughed into his mitten and stood at the radiator before class started. He bundled himself up in three jackets and ran to the rink and couldn’t feel his face. He turned the air conditioning over his first class plane seat on high to fall asleep.

_Drip._

Victor is ice, and Yuuri Katsuki is fire.

Yuuri is not fire in all of the most complimentary ways. Yuuri is fire because he is bright, and hot, and he melts through Victor’s shiny, sparkling exterior. The phrase _flaming out_ has been tossed around by skating commentators for years. Yuuri used to burn Victor when he got too close, wicking away bits of Victor’s self with him as Victor stared and tried to understand why Yuuri is made of oranges and yellows and reds instead of soft blues. Why Yuuri spends so much time on a puddle of frozen water when he’s so hot to the touch that even looking at him is hard.

_Drip._

Victor squirms.

Yuuri smiles.

_Drip._

Yuuri smiles.

Victor squirms.

_Drip._

The heat hurts. It’s so very against Victor’s nature. Victor prefers to be cold. He knows how to be cold. He likes to be on ice. He barely even sweats when he practices, in a t-shirt and a loose pair of thin athletic pants. He likes to feel his extra body heat being stolen from him, rising off his head and dissipating over the rink.

_Drip._

Yuuri sets his candle down, pushing on it until it’s well seated in its holder, and then picks up the next one.

“Take a deep breath for me, Victor.”

Victor breathes in slowly.

_DRIPdripdripdripdrip–_

“Ahh! Yuuri, ow, _ah_ –”

“Remember to breathe, Victor,” Yuuri says, soft and patient.

He steadies the candle, tilted at an angle that won’t make anything spill.

Victor breathes.

_Dripdripdrip drip      drip_

_drip_

_drip_

Victor inhales sharply through his nose and bites down hard on his lower lip.

“You’re doing very well,” Yuuri tells him. He strokes a hand down Victor’s side, all the way down to his hip where an old towel is draped. Yuuri sets the candle down in its holder, then scrapes his nails over some dried spots of wax. Victor gasps and squirms and threatens to lose his grip on the headboard where Yuuri has placed his hands, but Yuuri’s words are stronger than any ropes or handcuffs and he does not let go. Yuuri’s nails dig into Victor and pry away thin sheets of wax and reveal pinkened skin. He delicately picks up the shards and puts them on the towel so they won’t fall on the bed.

“How is it?” Yuuri asks. His eyes are warm, just like the rest of him, because he can’t help it. Yuuri can’t be anything but a flame.

“It hurts,” Victor breathes honestly. “It’s good. Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t, I promise.” Yuuri picks up the tallest of the candles. There are three, tucked into an old-fashioned candelabra that Victor owns for some reason. The two candles on the edges are shorter from Yuuri having used them more; he hasn’t touched the middle one yet, so he picks that one up, careful not to spill. “Here we go, deep breath.”

Victor takes a deep breath through his mouth and holds it.

_SPLASHdripdripdripdrip–_

Victor nearly screams. He writhes erratically and Yuuri has to clamp his thighs around Victor’s legs to try to keep from being thrown off. He pins one hand against Victor’s chest, accidentally pushing his palm into some half-cool wax, which reopens a little bubble of it and burns Victor all over again.

“You can take it,” Yuuri says, soft as ever. Victor, as ice, is sharp and hard-edged and just _hard_ , hard enough to land two thin knives of an ice skate on. Yuuri is soft the way fire is formless, twisting to fill space. Victor thinks that if fire didn’t hurt, it would be incredibly soft to the touch.

“Yuuri,” Victor murmurs as the flare of pain ebbs. He settles back against the bed. He’s sweating, and the sheet is slightly damp.

“You’re doing so well, Victor,” Yuuri praises. He twists the candle this way and that, then tilts it.

_Drip drip drip drip drip drip._

The pain is constant and Victor breathes into it. He arches his back up to give Yuuri more space to work with. Bright spots of pain cut into him, landing on his skin and then sinking into his body. It hurts so badly that all Victor can do is clench his teeth and pant through them in sharp, hissing breaths.

Yuuri’s hand is still on Victor’s chest. His thumb strokes a bare spot of skin soothingly. His eyes are locked on Victor’s.

Yuuri never burns himself. He never misses and drips on his wrist, he never catches his fingers in the flame or jostles the candle. He is precise, surgically so, carving bits of Victor Nikiforov out and piling them on a little hand towel.

Victor is hot.

Yuuri sets the candle down to gather wax again, then scrapes the nails of both hands down Victor’s chest. Victor cries out loudly and squirms again. Yuuri lets him, and carefully adjusts the little piles of dried wax on the towel. Victor is hard; his cock makes a natural divider under the towel, so Yuuri makes two neat piles on either side of it so the wax doesn’t spill.

“Yuuri,” Victor gasps, once he can breathe again.

“Are you doing okay?” Yuuri asks. He looks up at Victor again. The flicker of the candles reflects itself in his glasses.

Victor nods. “Yes.”

“Then shh.” Yuuri smiles softly, then goes back to scraping.

Victor throws his head back and tries to be still, but it’s not working. The more wax Yuuri removes, the harder he digs into Victor’s skin. He scratches at the soft burn marks, and all the burns will be gone in ten minutes once Yuuri stops picking at them, but the nail marks will be there for longer. Victor closes his eyes. Yuuri scratches him hard, from his collarbones, all the way down to the edge of the towel, and Victor howls.

Yuuri goes back to petting Victor’s sides, and after a moment, Victor pulls himself together enough to open his eyes and look down. Many of the blotchy pink spots are fading away already, but there are two reddening sets of four reddening lines slashed down his torso. Yuuri has sharp nails when he hasn’t cut them for a while. They make Victor feel like he’s being torn apart.

“Do you want more?” Yuuri asks.

“Yes, please, fuck,” Victor says vehemently.

Yuuri chuckles. “An English fuck too.”

“I don’t remember the Japanese fuck.”

“I appreciate your efforts.” Yuuri takes the first candle again. “Ready?”

Victor braces himself.

_Driiiiiiiiiiiiiip._

Yuuri draws a long, unending line of fire down Victor’s chest. The wax covers one nipple and Victor makes a choked screaming sound. The line flickers down his abdomen and ends around his stomach, and then Yuuri leaves a trail of _drip_ s all the way back up, letting a little pool in the hollow at Victor’s throat.

Victor’s chest is heaving. The cooling wax stretches and crinkles with the movement of his body. The pain lingers the worst in the spaces where the wax intersects with old burns and fresh nail marks, getting into the tiny, tiny sparks of agony from before and lighting them up again.

Bits of Victor melt away. There’s a certain shell that comes with being Victor Nikiforov, an icy mask he puts up in front of other people. It’s clear and silvery and sparkling and flawless, all unmarked pale skin and smiles. Victor isn’t the only one with a shell like that, but his is the most well crafted. He was born in the ice, onto the ice, wrapped in ice, one with the ice.

Yuuri wipes away a bead of sweat with his thumb.

“Again,” Victor demands.

Yuuri swaps candles and does it again. Victor can’t hold back his cry, or his thrashing, but Yuuri holds him down as well as he can. He streaks Victor’s body with fire and more of Victor cracks off and melts away, exposing the soft underbelly of what it means to be Victor. To want to be excised from yourself. To stop being so cold.

Yuuri holds the candle horizontally. Wax spills out, little particles of black embedded in each drop, and arc through the air onto Victor’s chest. It is constant and rhythmic and even and repeating and never-ending. Victor bucks against Yuuri and Yuuri presses his hand over the towel, over Victor’s cock, so he doesn’t spill the dried wax, and keeps dropping liquid fire onto Victor’s body. Through Victor’s hazy, slightly damp vision, he looks like he’s glowing.

Victor’s not sure when the drops stopped, but he seizes up when they start again, even hotter than before. Yuuri has a new candle in his hands and there’s a lot of built-up wax that flows down into the hollows of Victor’s ribs. Victor’s throat is starting to feel a little hoarse, and big chunks of him are coming apart now. There’s no cold in here - between the wax and Yuuri’s body heat, Victor is being burnt alive and he has never felt more himself.

“It’s okay,” Yuuri says abruptly. A thumb brushes along Victor’s lower eyelid. Victor makes the slow, vague connection that a tear must have slipped out. “You’re doing so well. Are you okay?”

Victor doesn’t have much in the way of words right now, at least not ones that Yuuri will understand, so he just nods.

“Good. I think just a little more, okay?”

Another nod.

“Good,” Yuuri says again. Victor closes his eyes and listens as Yuuri swaps out candles, scooting the candelabra higher on the bedside table so it doesn’t fall. Then two sharp points of pain hit him in the chest and he wails, his body confusing itself as he tries to pull away and push into the sensation at the same time. Yuuri hushes him again but Victor can’t be quiet as he’s burnt away, leaving him fresh and shiny and raw and new. The splatters of pain keep coming and Victor keeps yelling, gasping through his open mouth, leaving nail marks in his headboard because he’s barely managing to hold onto it but it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

Eventually, it peters out, and there’s the faint smell of smoke. Yuuri blows on Victor’s chest, and then blows out the rest of the candles. Victor breathes in slowly, and exhales a whine.

“I know. I’ll take care of you. Just a moment.”

The towel is lifted from Victor’s lap and air rushes to meet his burning skin. It’s cool for a second, and then his body heats it again. Soft sounds come from somewhere to Victor’s right, and then there are hands on his hips, thumbs pressing into his hipbones.

“Are you still with me?” Yuuri asks.

Victor manages a hum, but it’s a positive one.

“Good. I’m gonna take care of you now. You’re doing really, really good, Victor.”

A little shudder wracks through Victor’s body, now that it’s allowed to. Now that Victor is allowed to want to be good, instead of being expected to be great.

A puff of breath rushes against Victor’s lower belly and then the head of his cock is engulfed with fire too. He gasps again and his nails make an audible noise as they scrape against the headboard. Yuuri hums and Victor feels the vibrations down his cock and all through his body. He squirms again. He feels Yuuri smile.

Yuuri’s mouth is hot. It’s so hot - it must be hotter than the wax, even though Victor’s sure he read somewhere that candles can burn at over eight hundred degrees. It’s so hot and so all-encompassing that it shrinks Victor’s consciousness down to the four inches that Yuuri is working with right now and maybe little more. Yuuri is going to incinerate him, make Victor like him, fiery and bright like a beacon. Snow will melt around Victor and everyone will see him for who he is instead of the skater he’s build out of ice shards over the past twenty-three years.

It feels so good. Victor can barely tolerate it. The wax has solidified on his chest and it’s a different type of bondage, because it doesn’t stretch as much as he does. He can move under it, but he can’t break it - that’s Yuuri’s job. Yuuri takes care of things like this, cleaning Victor up once he’s been broken open and offered release. Yuuri is good at that sort of thing.

Victor thinks that all of him is inside Yuuri right now. It echoes around in his blissfully empty mind. Yuuri is communicating with the real Victor now, the one that he sees more and more often. Yuuri likes the real Victor, and that’s why Victor keeps allowing Yuuri to chip the shell of ice off. It keeps growing back, but it’s a little thinner each time, because Yuuri keeps it melted off when he drapes himself over Victor’s back and nuzzles against his neck.

Yuuri’s thumb touches Victor’s eyelid again, and when he moves it, the skin until it is cool for a split second. More tears, not surprising. Victor isn’t used to such a freeing assault of sensation. It used to alarm Yuuri, when the occasional tear slipped out, but he’s used to it now. Likes it, even. Victor is never freer than when he cries.

Slow, echoing waves of pleasure are rolling up Victor’s body, through his chest and into his head. He wants to thread his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, but he holds off. Yuuri wouldn’t stop if he did, but he told Victor not to move his hands and Victor just wants to be good. Victor feels Yuuri’s throat muscles moving, and his own muscles moving in turn, weak little thrusts up, chasing that heat. Desperate to be set on fire again. Desperate to be melted down into his base materials and reformed into himself.

He comes down Yuuri’s throat, deep enough that Yuuri probably doesn’t even taste it. He cries out again, and more tears prick at his eyes from the shaking intensity of it. His entire body is taut, pushing up into Yuuri, and Yuuri takes it and swallows over and over and eases Victor through it. He slowly pushes Victor’s hips back down onto the bed and holds Victor in his mouth for a little while after that as Victor pants shallowly and shivers. Once Victor has calmed down, Yuuri slowly pulls his head back and wipes his palm against Victor’s cock, drying the saliva off so that Victor doesn’t get cold at all. His nails return to Victor’s chest, much more gently this time, and quickly remove the rest of those two thick streaks of wax. Victor hums softly, and again when Yuuri wipes his chest with the corner of the towel and then starts stroking his hands over the sore skin.

“Victor?” Yuuri murmurs.

“Mmm.”

“Alright, good.” There’s fond amusement in Yuuri’s voice. Victor can picture the crinkle of his eyes. It makes him want to smile too, but he’s drifting too deeply for that. “We’re all done, okay?”

“Mmmmmm.”

Yuuri chuckles. “Here, let me get these.” Hands close around Victor’s wrists and gently tug them free from the headboard, then lower then down to Victor’s sides. Victor’s shoulders ache from pulling so hard, so Yuuri rubs feeling back into them, earning several more pleased hums. Then he lies down next to Victor, tucked against his side, and traces his fingers over the pink marks on Victor’s chest. “You did really well, Victor,” he murmurs. “I’m so proud of you.”

Victor shivers again. Fresh warmth floods through his body. A gift from Yuuri.

“You always do so well,” Yuuri continues. “You’ve earned some rest.”

Victor nods slowly, like he doesn’t remember how.

He lets Yuuri reach over him and feed him little sips of water. Lets Yuuri rub some lotion onto his chest. Lets Yuuri roll him onto his side. Yuuri curls up around him, Victor’s face tucked against his neck, and he wraps his arms around Victor’s back. One hand scratches idly between Victor's shoulder blades. Victor all but purrs.

“There’s my Victor,” Yuuri murmurs. Adoration is evident in his voice. Victor is boneless and floating and in love. “Rest now.”

Victor nods and hides his face against Yuuri’s throat and rests.

**Author's Note:**

> Some say the world will end in fire,  
> Some say in ice.  
> From what I've tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favor fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice. 
> 
> -Robert Frost


End file.
